Happy Birthday To Me!

Yesterday was my birthday.

This auspicious day has historically be spent in bed, mostly dozing, and emphatically denying that another year of my life has been wasted.

This year was different. This year I got two of the best birthday presents ever!

My beloved Firebird has been irritable and distant for months -- it's been spending more and more time in my mechanic's garage and I think it's been having a torrid affair with the 1960-something Olds 442 they keep on the lot. So I took it to a dealership and traded it in for a truck. A big, growling Dodge Ram. Happy Birthday to me :)

My other birthday present was, if possible, even better. But you'll just have to wait until I write up a proper post before you find out :)

I love this post from bad influence girl:

On Droughts and Fog

I abhor the flash-flood nature of my (love)life.

Dotty has disappeared into the ether. I haven't heard from him since right around the 4th when he suggested we go out.

GH and I managed to go out, but I haven't had so much as an IM from him in the last week.

I decided earlier this week to take the initiative and invite Jackson out. It should be no surprise to you that he completely blew me off with a litany of why he wouldn't have time to get together. This person was coming to town, he had to meet with that person, he had his son one night, he was going somewhere the other night ... yadda yadda. I don't begrudge anyone a busy life, but I firmly believe that people make time for the things they want. As he didn't even bother to suggest when he could meet, it is apparent that Jackson is not all that interested. I will ask again in a few days just in case he had a flaky moment, but my money's on the answer being the same.

I sent an IM to Mr. Marine last Monday, after not hearing from him since the day I dropped him off at the airport. He waited until I was offline again to respond, and he gave me a load of ultra-lame hooey about how he'd been sick since he'd returned home, and had been going to bed every night right after work. WTF? No one is that sick for an entire month. I am officially writing him off.

What is so very wrong with me that no one is interested? If I had a clue, I would fix the problem.

Love/Hate

As you may have noticed, I follow a number of kinky and alternasex blogs, particularly those about femdom. I myself have no real desire to dominate, although I will admit to the occasional sadistic indulgence. Mostly I follow these writers because I enjoy their incisiveness and wicked wit.

One of my favorites for a good while now has been Bitchy Jones. She has made quite a splash in the sexverse for her vocal complaints about the current state of femdom, and rightly so as there is much to complain about. I am very much onboard with her for posts like this and this, although she did rather lose me with her series "Piss, Blood, Rape, Death". But that's not actually what I want to write about.

I want to write about her latest post. I am all kinds of disappointed that she took the beauty-is-worth-and-power paradigm, which is the central dysfunction between the sexes, and co-opted it for her own whining. Bitchy is right that beauty-desire is a passive thing and not at all powerful itself. But if her flavor of dominance is that she takes what she wants instead of submission being a gift to her, then why not seize her own sexuality? Why must it be so affected by what other people thinking/doing/wearing?

I think it is unfair of Bitchy to condemn those who fantasize about beautiful people. When I imagine (or engage in) submission, it is not to the ugliest man I can find. It is to a handsome man with a big cock. Does that disenfranchise the ugly men with little dicks? Probably. But it's my fucking fantasy. So why does Bitchy take it so fucking personally that submissive men fantasize about a beautiful Domme? It sounds like sour apples.

Moreover, Bitchy's agitation is all the more baffling to me because she does not seem to be lacking for sex partners. In addition to other men, she can indulge herself to her heart's twisted content with Pan. Some of us don't have a single playmate. Some of us are not allowed any sexuality at all.

Talk about the ultimate disenfranchisement.

More Than Meets The Eye

So, I saw Transformers tonight with GH (who flakily showed up at the last second). What an awesome summertime movie! Despite its obligatory two-dimensional characterizations, it was a LOT of fun.

Now, you might expect someone like the Spinster to prefer Jane Austen adaptations and the ilk. Jackson even called us conservative the other day *sniff*. But never fear! There is more to the Spinster than meets the eye. Heh. The Spinster's ingredients for the perfect movie: 1) hot lead actors, 2) car chases, 3) explosions.

I think we have come, Dear Readers, to a moment of confession. My favorite character was not Captain Lennox (played by purty Josh Duhamel), or funny Sam (played by future superstar Shia LaBeouf). Nor was it the endearing Bumblebee or brave Optimus Prime.


It was Ironside. See, I have this thing for trucks. Big trucks. Especially big, black trucks. I don't recall ever *not* feeling this way about trucks . . . it's practically a fetish. So everytime Ironside came on the screen in truck form, pervert that I am, I got a little wetter.

Jackson has a big, black, diesel Silverado. I should call him >:)

Of Course

*grumble*

Of course this week has not even remotely lived up to expectations.

Jackson claims to have developed a headcold and can't see me for at least a week. A perfectly reasonable excuse, you might say. Except I've heard this one before from guys and on at least two occasions it was proven bullshit.

Today is Thursday (duh), but I still haven't heard from Dotty about finalizing our plans for tomorrow. My money's on not hearing from him until the middle of next week, and then he'll be all "Where were you? I thought we were going to get together last Friday." This, too, is a game I've seen before. I could contact him, yes, but I've gone and boneheadedly lost his phone number and I've already tried to get him by IM.

GH is being a flake. After going out of his way to make a date, he has changed the time twice and asked if he could bring his bandmates along. All while maintaining that his interest is more than platonic. WTF?

One of Us

http://www.salon.com/mwt/col/tenn/2007/01/23/excellence_fatigue/index.html

This woman is one of us. Maybe she's as pretty as she claims, maybe she's not. But for whatever reason, men are not pursuing her.

When It Rains, It Pours

After a dry spell consisting of, oh, let's say MY WHOLE LIFE, things are suddenly interesting. Yes, your very own Invisible Spinster has managed to get three dates with three different guys.

Last night was the first one, and it went swimmingly. He is intelligent, charming, funny, successful in his profession, and definitely someone I would like to get to know better. I will call him . . . Jackson.

Number two is a character I've chatted with online for a while now. He is educated, witty, and what we have isn't chemistry, it's passion. I can tell already that sex with him would be an intense experience, whether it's the melding of two souls or flat out fucking. Talking with him can be intoxicating, but when we disagree . . . oh boy, watch out! The sparks sure fly. In theory we are set for Friday night. He thinks it's some sort of omen, us meeting for the first time on Friday the 13th. For this reason I will call him Dotty.

Behind door number three is a PhD candidate. I am currently the least interested in him because I just don't think we have the chemistry. Although intelligent, we don't have a whole lot in common. Heaven only knows what he sees in me; I don't sense that he's genuinely interested, only that I'm caught up in some sort of cynical play-the-odds game on his part. I agreed to go out with him because I need the practice. I will nickname him Guitar Hero, GH for short, because (drumroll please) . . . he plays the guitar.

All three of these gentlemen I found online, which seems to me a mixed blessing. I am pleased that someone is showing an interest in me, but I am disappointed that I remain invisible in my daily life. Nevertheless, I am working to concentrate on the positive as much as possible. I will keep you posted!

[EDIT: Just after publishing this post, Jackson sent a txt message saying what a good time he had last night and that we will have to get together again soon. Woohoo!]

Trans-Siberian Vibrations

Classical music was the original rock n' roll -- some of it was never meant to be played at a reasonable volume:

Christmas Eve Sarajevo

1812 Overture

Non Nobis Domine (from Henry V soundtrack)

Beethoven's 9th Symphony, 4th Movement

Hall of the Mountain King

Wizards in Winter

Paranoia

I collect articles about the Otherworld. The Other world of the CIA, of spies and back room deals.

Black sites:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/01/AR2005110101644.html

Ted Rall, Afghanistan
http://www.citypaper.net/pipeline/

Undercurrents

Sorry folks for the off-topic post today. Instead, we'll be talking world politics. Not the goofy camera-ready crap on Capitol Hill, but the real deal.

I came across this article (reg req) in the New York Times recently and it sent shivers up my spine. For those of you too lazy to follow the link, it is a lengthy article about Russia's forced nationalization of the world's largest nickel producer. This is scary when you put it context. Putin's goverment pushed Yukos Oil out of business a few years ago and has since forced the sale of any number of "strategic assets" to the goverment and its friends. Moreover, these assets are on a foreign buying spree.

I am a capitalist through and through (Ayn Rand, anyone?), but events like these unsettle me on an even deeper level. This growing list of foreign-owned strategic assets and commodity companies is a fatal cancer for America's economy. It is also, and perhaps more worryingly, the weakening of the foundation of our political power on the world stage. I happen to think President Bush has done some irreparable damage to our economy and reputation, but I also think this pales in comparison to the threat that we are up against with the balance of "commodity power" lurching as it is, away from American shores.

Gas and oil are the commodities everyone worries about, but there is also outsourced food production as more of our land is lost to urban sprawl, raw metals and materials, even technical know-how. The brouhaha over the Dubai Ports World contract is part of this. In its own way, the use of private military companies (mercenaries) by the U.S. military is part of this.

How are we to remain independent if we do not control our essential commodities?

The scariest part of all is that there is absolutely nothing that you and I can do about it. Shopping at the "right" store and buying the "right" goods can't fix it. Electing the "right" politician(s) can't fix it. Invading the "right" country can't fix it.

The Eat Me Beat Me Lady

There is nothing quite so effective at making one feel completely inadequate as reading sex bloggers. Tales of sexual conquests and fuckfests. Orgasm smorgasbords and skillful lovers.

I want my share.

Dear Universe, bring me the man who will fuck me senseless. A man who eats pussy the way *I* want it, not the way he saw in some porn flick. In no particular order I want to be fucked, hit, eaten, beaten, tied up, tied down, choked, teased, given sweet release, and then fucked some more.

I am not horny. I am indignant that the universe has denied me.

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes the frustration is just too much . . .

Broken

The other day I stumbled upon this blog and it made me very sad for myself. Occasionally that happens, when I come across somebody whose beauty of the soul is so much deeper and purer than mine could ever be.

Sexeteria had a post a good while back that was tangentially about bloggers and their sex lives. I read that and it, too, made me sad for myself because I don't have a sex life. Well, technically I have one, as I seem to manage to get laid once a year (sometimes even twice!). But if my sex life had a visual representation, it would be the despondent, blue-filtered, gothic of a Whistler painting. It certainly would not be the glorious uber-Technicolor of real life.

Where are the orgasms and the man who actually lusts over me? The man who doesn't stop precisely because I'm actually enjoying his ministrations. The man who treats me like a woman, instead of a body.

I think and I think and I think about all these things. I think about the great sex I've never had, and the all-too-mediocre sex I have had. I think of other people having healthy relationships, and the poison relationships that I know are out there, of the ups and the downs and all the things that make up life. Round and round in my head, I think about these things. And I think about myself and the complete absence of all those things, and all I can come up with is that I must be broken. Broken and nonfunctional, not to have experienced so much of what it's like to be human.

To make it through the day with all of its petty insults, I tell myself that I am better off with things how they are now. I will probably never know the bliss of having my affections reciprocated, but I will also never have the torture rack of not knowing where I stand. Sometimes, when I feel I actually could put forth the effort to change things, I don't even know where to begin. How do I explain my past so that it's not actively repulsive to a normally functioning person?

I have of late considered putting a request out on Craigslist, but that path could easily go so very, very, wrong. I do not need the off-hand rejection based on a photo. I do not need another sexual encounter that is little more than a man masturbating using my body instead of his hand. I do not need the rejection and humiliation of fucking a man and then being told it did nothing for him. I do not need to be as close to someone as two people can physically get and still feel completely alone.

And yet, what else can I do?

Ugly People

http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/labnotes/archive/2007/06/27/why-doesn-t-evolution-get-rid-of-ugly-people.aspx

Captain Jack Sparrow's Philosophical Gems

The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do.

We must fight, to run away!

Why fight when you can negotiate?

If you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it.

It's the honest ones you need to watch out for, because you never know when they're going to do something incredibly... stupid.

Rum is good.

They done what's right by them. Can't expect more than that.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!

Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by.

Now... bring me that horizon.

Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.

Why is the rum gone?

Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?

If we don't have the key, we can't open whatever we dont' have that it unlocks. So what purpose would be served in finding whatever need be unlocked, which we don't have, without first having found the key what unlocks it?

If you choose to lock your heart away you'll lose her for certain.

Cruel is a matter of perspective.

My first and only love is the sea.

The world's still the same - there's just less in it.

Savvy?

Take what you can, give nothing back.

Mr. Smoochy Part II

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Last fall Mrs. Smoochy and I had gone jogging near daily in the park until she abruptly quit, ostensibly due to the weather. Now, I love jogging. It's good exercise and it keeps me from slipping into clinical depression. This winter was total hell, what with not jogging and it being my first Christmas without my father. In the spring, I was desperate to start again and invited Mrs. Smoochy to come. She told me on no uncertain terms that she hated jogging and wasn't going to do it any more. So, I turned to Mr. Smoochy and he agreed to go.

At this point Mrs. Smoochy, a normally pleasant and easy-going woman, turned into a psycho hose beast on steroids. First we tried jogging in the morning before work -- no, that wouldn't do for her because mornings were her time to snuggle with her husband. Then we tried a few days jogging after work -- but, alas, that apparently cut into her quality time with her husband. We settled on jogging in the morning right after she had gone to work. She wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't immediately think of any way to object. However, object she did. Over a month long period I got reports from Mr. Smoochy about how she was increasingly moody and nasty to him, culminating in her apparently making a series of statements to him about how she couldn't trust him anymore, how she didn't know when he was telling the truth, how she felt he and I were too intimate of friends, and how she felt left out of her own marriage.

This, over jogging in a public park.

After a long angst-filled conversation, Mr. Smoochy and I decided that even though she was basically asking for his balls on a platter he would give up jogging with me in order to preserve his marriage.

As his friend, I completely support his decision. It's ridiculous to put another woman before your wife. On my own behalf, though, I am deeply angry. I am angry at Mrs. Smoochy for resenting my fleeting pleasure. I am angry that she would put her unfounded insecurities before the needs of her friend. I am angry that she would dare meddle with any of my friendships. And, irrational as it may be, there is also part of me that is hurt I wasn't picked.

I have barely spoken to either of them this month. I have precious little desire to maintain a friendship with Mrs. Smoochy, but giving her a piece of my mind is pretty much the permanent end of any hope of seeing Mr. Smoochy. And of course he himself has me so bollocksed up inside that I can't figure out what the hell I want.

Despite all this he is a dear friend and I miss him terribly. Yet any contact at all is simply another reminder of the friendship we can no longer have. What to do?

For now I shall stay my course and avoid contact until forced to do otherwise. But I will always keep in my heart his special touch, the touch that has moved me like no other.

Pirated Youth

I came home today and turned on the TV to keep my parrot company. What do you know was on, but Pirates of Penzance with Kevin Kline?

Whatever my other plans, they were immediately forgotten. I was three years old when this film was released, and it was literally the only VHS my parents ever bought. Having watched it easily a thousand times before the age of five it left an indelible mark upon my all-too-impressionable psyche.

Oh, where to begin? There is the obvious weakness for all things piratical. Pirate boots? Check. Billowy poet's shirts? Check. Men in tights? Check. Captain's coats? Check. There is also my weakness for groups of men singing together. Jodies? Yep. Gilbert & Sullivan choruses? Yep. Red Army Choir? Yep. Soccer chants? Yep.

But that is not all. No, no, no. Kevin Kline's Pirate King affected little me in ways that probably weren't legal. Remember what I said about Commander Riker? Um, yeah. That pales in comparison. Take any heart? Take mine! It is purely his fault that I have prediliction for sweater-chested men with intelligence and a taste for absurdity. And poofy guy-hair. To this day, the archetypal manly-man in my historically based masturbatory fantasies is the Pirate King.

There is the Pirate King kidnapper version, and I the fair maiden. Nevermind that I get seasick when faced with any body of water larger than a bathtub. There is the Pirate King and his woman equal, vanquishing foes together. There is the Pirate King and the bounty hunter who hunts him ruthlessly. (Perhaps I should write these out and make myself a career as a romance writer). And there is, naughty of naughties, the Pirate King and his female orphan ward. Stop! I think I see where we are getting confused. When you say "orphan", do you mean a person who has lost his parents, or "often" frequently? I am an orphan frequently. Yes, yes, I am.

Tellingly, I never identified with simpering Mabel but rather even at that young age with Louise Gold's brassy Edith. I think she may have been my first positive female role model. She was not pretty -- and she knew it -- but that didn't leave her so desperate that she'd take anyone's crap. Funny how I grew up to be just like her.

Now where's my Pirate King?

Come, friends, who plough the sea!
Truce to navigation
Take another station
Let's vary pirac-y
With a little burglar-y!

Mr. Smoochy Part II - Private

I tell myself that Mr. Smoochy loves his wife, that we would be fundamentally mismatched despite our friendship, that it wouldn't last. I can honestly say that I am not in love with Mr. Smoochy.

I am in love with his touch.

His kisses, his hands, his knowing touch. These are the reasons women crave men.

I have never known a touch like his. I may never know another.

__

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Mr. Smoochy Part I

I am not yet very good at this blogging thing. My voice here still resonates with Dear Diary when it should communicate a certain urbane angst at the state of my personal relations. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader, as I find myself in these pages.

Tonight I have some ranting to do over Mr. Smoochy.

Mr. Smoochy is a dear friend of mine, my confidante, my healer, a white knight who came riding out of the fog to rescue me after my father died. He lost his mother some years ago and was able to lead me, a Virgil to my Dante, through the mists of my grief. Our friendship goes well beyond the bonds of loss, although as between any two people sometimes there are chasms of separation as deep as the universe. As it happens this journey we started, he and I, began in the months leading up to his wedding to Mrs. Smoochy.

My relationship with her has been a fraught one, and although so far covering over half my life, it has been neither constant nor enjoyable. She, and with her, He, came whooshing into my life with the news of my father's death in order to Be There for me. Mrs. Smoochy fell down on that job so completely that it's not even funny. To this day she expects my gratitude for the hours she "didn't have to give" me.

Here are a few random glimpses into the personalities of Mr. and Mrs. Smoochy: they are into BDSM fairly heavily (he the D, she the s), she is an exhibitionist but hasn't fully actualized it, they have an open marriage (mostly so she can cat around), she is overweight and sometimes insecure, he is a tall and handsome ex-Marine, she prefers her friends both gregarious and effortless.

When Mr. Smoochy and I started our friendship, Mrs. Smoochy was happy as most women are that her friend and her husband-to-be got along well. At an inappropriately early juncture, however, she announced that the priviledges of their open relationship did not (and would not) include me. Fine. Both Mr. Smoochy and I were a little puzzled at this, but accepted it with grace. Since we were both online at work, we spent many hours chatting about this and that, much probably falling under the NSFW label. When Mrs. Smoochy went off to East Coast City to cat with another man, and again when she had a bona-fide business trip, or when she went hither and thither, Mr. Smoochy would come and spend movie-cuddle time with me on the couch. Those were some of the best hours of my life, just talking with him in the dark with his strong arms around me. For those all-too-brief moments the world was lifted from my shoulders.

One of Mr. Smoochy's favorite topics is sex. My initial laconism on the topic amused and goaded him further. Sometimes he would plumb the depths of my spinsterhood: Have you done This? Have you done That? Other times he would rush at me with hypotheticals: How would it feel if I touched you Here? Or There?

It wasn't long before he began to discover my weaknesses. My skin, so often untouched, is more sensitive than you can imagine. My neck, particularly below the ear, when plied with kisses and caresses can bring me to orgasm. My flirtation with breath play. My lust for the man strong enough to manhandle my indelicate self.

Mr. Smoochy found and exploited them all, sitting in the dark on the couch. Yet we held true to The Rules decreed in embarassing detail by Mrs. Smoochy. We did not kiss, he did not touch me anywhere he hadn't already in front of his wife, I did not touch him, and although I could not say No I did not say Yes.

Gentle Reader, I have lied to you. We did kiss. On two separate nights, drunk only on our own lust. We did know better. These kisses, they were electric, sizzling kisses.

Exactly the soul-scorching kisses Mrs. Smoochy feared we would have.